But he struggles against a one-two punch of nature and time. Both have done a number on the graveyard, so much so that just a handful of the markers remain readable.

Yet Dilts keeps coming back. In part, the former Navy man feels a duty to maintain the final resting place of a lone Army veteran. Besides his name and rank, his life seems lost to history. But he remains alive and important to Dilts, especially on Memorial Day.

So Dilts works on. "It's out of respect for the cemetery," he says.

Seville is pronounced either SEE-ville or se-VILL, depending on which of its seven residents you ask. It's never been much bigger, but it once was part of a thriving community in western Fulton County.

The county got a population boost after the War of 1812. Congress granted military tracts to veterans, then sold remaining land to the public for $1.25 an acre. The largest slice of that available territory rested in Fulton County.

Around Seville, the white man's first forts popped up in the 1820s, prompting uneasy interaction between the newcomers and American Indians. At the time, Black Hawk, the Sauk war chief, made frequent visits to the area.

"The Indians were troublesome and a nuisance at the time," according to the decidedly biased 18th century tome "A History of Fulton County in the Spoon River Country."

After the Black Hawk War, in 1832, American Indians dispersed, leaving the area open to commercial investment. One of the first settlers was a fellow named John Harris, who walked from Ohio -- 40 miles a day, his only companions a prodigious rifle he called "Long Tom" and a dog whose name wasn't memorable at all.

Harris, later the namesake of Harris Township, would bring kin from Ohio to help clear timber and raise crops on the fertile ground along the Spoon River. Eventually, word of the business opportunities spread even farther east, summoning a clan from Upstate New York with the surnames of Elmore, Hicks and Fuller.

Of the latter family, A.S. Fuller bought and operated a sawmill at Seville. He bolstered its capacity to the point the burg became known as "paper town." A school, church, hotel and blacksmith would rise in and around Seville, as surrounding towns like Smithfield and Marietta prospered.

But innovations in mills, especially in Minnesota, drew businesses away. And Seville again drew as quiet as before.

Still, some of the settlers stuck it out, including those from Upstate New York. Preparing for eventuality, they laid out a small graveyard on a rise in the land that overlooks the Spoon and adjacent croplands.

The first kinsman laid to rest under the boneyard's shady trees was Lydia Hicks, who died in 1869. A.S. Fuller, the miller of Seville, wasn't buried there. But his parents, Ezra and Phoebe Fuller, have been there since 1878 and 1873, respectively.

Next to their shared marker is a thin, sandstone slab that bears the name of J.O. Fuller. We know little of the man.

He was born March 1, 1823. He died Dec. 3, 1870. He served in the 120th Illinois Infantry. He attained the rank of sergeant.

That's all on his marker, and that's all of the memory that remains of the man. But it's enough to pique the interest and concern of Raymond Dilts.

Born in nearby Fiatt, Ill., Dilts joined the Navy in 1945. He was in training when the Japanese surrendered, and he'd spend much of his two-year tour in Guam.

When he came back, he bought a farmhouse in Seville. Two years later, he wed Betty June Buffum of Marietta, and they would raise four children in that same farmhouse.

In fact, they liked the pastoral setting so much that Raymond Dilts didn't mind the daily drive to his job at the Pabst brewery in Peoria Heights, Ill. He worked there for decades, until it shut down.

Dilts looked for other work but got turned down because of his age. So, he took a job as a farmhand for the landowners whose fields surrounded his home.

While working those fields, he'd often spot the tree-rimmed cemetery on the rise of land. Over time, he would find himself stopping by when time allowed. He'd trim back the brush and otherwise try to maintain the site.

An old fence fell into disrepair. Grazing cows began to wander between the fading headstones.

June Dilts says, "He didn't think cattle should be stomping around the cemetery."

So, Raymond Dilts fixed the fence, and kept out the cows. Still, Dilts could hold back Mother Nature only so much: Over the years, the elements began to crack and topple the markers. And just this past winter, a hickory tree snapped, crashing down atop several gravestones.

Dilts periodically sets them back up. The weather knocks them back down. Only one side will win this battle in the end.

Dilts says no one else ever visits the cemetery. Charlotte Bergevin of Peoria, Ill., a descendent of the families who lie in the cemetery, says she hasn't visited in about 10 years.

"It used to be a beautiful cemetery," says Bergevin, 87. "It's about gone to pieces."

But Dilts enjoys those pieces. Some days, he'll bring along a chunk of blue chalk and rub the markers, making the inscriptions appear somewhat clearer.

He wishes he knew more about J.O. Fuller. A thin, metal pipe stands in front of Fuller's headstone; throughout the area, similar pipes pop up in front of other vet's stones. They can serve as flag-holders for Old Glory on a wooden stick.

In many graveyards, veterans groups keep the tradition alive. But no flag has graced the Fuller stone in 15 years, at least.

"The old boys who used to do it, they're my age," Dilts says matter-of-factly. "The younger boys, they got other things to do."

The last grave was dug here in 1925. There is room for no more. That's fine with Dilts.

"We've about made up our mind to be cremated," he says of himself and his wife. "It's half the price (as a burial)."

He pauses. Then he grins and says, "It doesn't make a whole hell of a lot of difference to me. We all end up ashes."

Phil Luciano is a columnist with the Journal Star. He can be reached at pluciano@pjstar.com, 686-3155 or (800) 225-5757, Ext. 3155.